A Stranger
by cubefreak101
Summary: He is a phantom with an unknown agenda. A friendly face that makes you want to tell yourself that you're safe and everything is right with the world. One wrong move, however, and you'll be eliminated with ruthless efficiency. Fallout3 based, maybe oneshot


**A Stranger**

_Well, this could be a oneshot, but I'm not sure. I was originally intending to make it a series, but the way it turned out could be perfect oneshot material… Hm, I wonder… Oh well, R&R of course, and let me know if you'd like to see more of the stranger._

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"No seriously! They say he wanders the Wastes aimlessly, searching for adventure and intrigue. You can always tell who he is because the only thing he ever wears is a brown patched up old duster, dark leather gloves, and a brown Stetson cap. He'll always greet you nicely and start up a pleasant conversation, but if you make one wrong move, piss this guy off in any way… POW!"

The man who was speaking smacked his hand against the arm of his partner for effect. His partner seemed thoroughly unfazed and, most of all, unimpressed.

"You actually expect me to believe this bullshit?" The second man shook his head, causing the dancing shadows of the campfire that was situated between the two men to shift and depict the second man's face in a much more ominous and deadly tone, if only for a moment. "Is this the same guy that you said killed a man by standing in front of him and staring at him for an hour?"

"That'd be the same guy. My cousin Suk Me Haha (don't ask about the name) saw it over in Springvale a month ago. He walked right up to this raider that was giving him shit, reached over and pulled the guys mask off, staring him right in the eyes the whole while. The guy just froze up all like this." The first man screwed up his face into a wide-eyed, slack-jawed, obviously exaggerated position. "And they stayed like that for a real long time, and eventually the raider just dropped dead. True story, dude. No joke. Oh, and they also say—

"Hang on a sec." The second man interjected as a whimpering sounded behind him.

He turned around to face a man in ragged clothes who was beaten, dirty, bloody, and shackled to a thick metal stake driven deep into the ground. The man, seeing attention turned upon him, hid his bearded and bedraggled face and issued another whimper, quieter this time.

"SHUT UP!" The slaver struck the man across the brow, leaving a cut which was now the newest of many faded scars and lacerations. "We fed you already tonight you worthless piece of crap! Now shut up and go to sleep!"

"Dude, quiet." The other slaver warned. "You don't know who might be out there… They say that this guy, the one in the brown duster, he hunts down mercs, raiders, muties, and slavers." He spoke the last word in a single nervous syllable, as if he felt the need to get it out as fast as possible lest some unseen force hear him and attack out of sheer contempt for the very word.

"Oh please! You know Dave, I get sick of you and your stupid stories sometimes. I don't want to hear any more." There were a few moments of silence. Then the second slaver spoke again, seemingly trying to reassure himself. "Heh, besides, if anyone tries to mess with us," He drew a Chinese pistol from its holster at his hip and placed his hand over his arm, then jerked the gun upwards, mock-firing at an unseen foe. "Blam! They get one right between the eyes. You know that better than anyone." When the second slaver spoke these words, the slave, who was now laying down in the dirt behind him jumped and whimpered again. He spun around and pressed his Chinese pistol to the man's head and hissed into his ear. "Do you want to lose your _other_ hand? Do you? Think long and hard now." There was no sound but the slave's loud and fearful breathing. "Good. Now, go. To. Sleep."

The slaver turned around, about to tell Dave more about why his story was bullshit and how they should probably get some sleep. He never got the chance, because Dave was gone. Not necessarily dead and gone, just gone. He wasn't where he was five seconds ago. There was no sign of a struggle. The remaining slaver brought up his gun and spun in all directions, pointing the gun at the darkness, but it was futile. The orb of light that was cast outward by the fire only illuminated the surrounding few meters. The rest of the world was pure darkness.

The slaver was suddenly aware of the fact that he had begun to sweat despite the coldness of the night. He spun around to check on the slave. The slave was gone. Again, there was no evidence of a struggle. This time, however, there were visible footprints leading away from where the slave was laying. It seemed like less than a second ago that the man had seen the slave last, but he wasn't sure… None of this seemed real. It seemed as if he had suddenly fallen into a nightmarish world of uncertainty.

Suddenly the sound of gravel crackling under heavy boots reached his ears. It was coming from behind him. He spun around, his pistol pointing directly at the chest of a man of medium build who donned a long brown duster and a slightly cocked Stetson hat. Light stubble clung to his face, and he wore a pair of tinted eyeglasses. The man had a slight amicable smile on his face, and was looking the slaver right in the eyes. The slaver looked back and while the expression of the man's face seemed to tell every fiber of his being that he was a friend and should be trusted, the reflection of the fire in his eyes seemed to express his true inner feelings. As he stared deep into the stranger's eyes, he was unaware of the fact that his gun was lowering to the ground.

"D-d-did you k-kill Dave?"

The stranger's expression did not falter. He merely stared the slaver down.

"_SHOOT HIM! SHOOT HIM NOW!" _The slaver screamed these words to himself inside his head, but instead of firing upon the stranger as his much rational thinking seemed to recommend, he asked, "W-here's our c-c-captive?"

The stranger's expression changed this time. His smile widened. It was not a maniacal smile, but a smile that made you want to tell this person your problems and share a beer with the man.

"D-did you release him?"

The stranger nodded. The slaver looked him over and noticed he was not carrying any visible weaponry. Anything could be hidden in that long coat, though.

"Are you going to…?" The slaver gulped. "…k-kill me?"

This time, to the slaver's surprise, the man spoke. "Do you think you deserve to live?" The man cocked an eyebrow. The way he said this was in such a way that you would not believe he meant you ill by speaking those words. It was merely a question out of curiosity. Or at least, that's what it seemed like. It was at that moment, however, that the slaver knew he was going to die. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew that he was about to be killed. And somehow, it didn't bother him. Standing face to face with this man, this fact almost seemed as natural as his need to breathe.

"Do you think you deserve to live?" The man repeated the question.

The slaver began to contemplate this. The ills of his life flashed before his eyes. He remembered the time he beat that innocent young girl to death. He remembered the time when he poisoned three slaves out of spite for the owner. He thought of the dozen or so men, women, and children he had captured and herded back to Paradise Falls like cattle. Did he deserve to live? What had he done with his chance at life so far? Cheat, murder, steal, and enslave fellow human beings, that's what he had done. The more he thought of it, the more it sickened him. In a single minute of silence, the slave had become disgusted with himself.

"Do you think you deserve-"

"No." The slaver interrupted the man before he could repeat his question. He hung his head, waiting for the shot to come. The sword, the bullet, whatever this man was going to use to kill him. Instead, no shot came, no blunt pain. He stood there, and the stranger turned to leave.

"Interesting", were the man's only words before he walked off into the darkness and left the slaver alone again. He had banked on the man killing him so much, that he was taken aback. The man was not going to kill him after all, but the slaver was still absolutely disgusted with himself. He _didn't_ deserve to live, so why had the man let him? It made no sense, and it made him angry. If the man would not take what he now realized to be his worthless and sickening life, the slaver would do it for him. He placed the gun that he only now remembered he had been holding this entire time to his temple, and made a silent oath that if there was a life after this one, he would do better next time.

The stranger walked off into the darkness, all emotion having left his face, for he was staring down the darkness now, not a broken and heartless man. The former slave had been given enough rations for two days of travel and a .32 pistol with a few spare rounds. Enough for any man with a strong will to survive to get by on. As he made his way to the top of a large boulder overlooking the campsite, he paused and turned. No sooner had he looked back at the flickering light that was the fire than he heard the crack of a gunshot. A shadow fell over the light of the fire for a moment: a body falling to the earth. The stranger cracked a smile.

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_So there you have it. Don't ask what happened to Dave! If this turns out to be a oneshot, then I will leave it up to your imagination. If I end up writing this as a series, you will learn more about him. So what did you think? The review button is right down there. Yep, that button. Go ahead, click it. Tell me your opinion. Mainly I want to know if I should write more, or leave this as is… So, have at it!_


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